


Through Bitter Chains

by LeastExpected_Archivist



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Slavery, Angst, BDSM, Drama, First Time, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Rape, Romance, Sex, Violent Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2002-02-04
Updated: 2002-02-04
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:13:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26493943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeastExpected_Archivist/pseuds/LeastExpected_Archivist
Summary: By Rhysenn.
Relationships: Aragorn | Estel/Legolas Greenleaf, Boromir (Son of Denethor II)/Legolas Greenleaf
Comments: 1
Kudos: 8
Collections: Least Expected





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Amy Fortuna, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Least Expected](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Least_Expected), which has been offline since 2002. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on the [Least Expected collection profile](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/leastexpected/profile).
> 
> Warnings: BDSM  
>  Feedback: I'd love to hear it!
> 
> The One Ring remains lost, perhaps, even forever; Sauron lies dormant, unable to return whilst his Ring of Power is hidden from him, although the whisper of his formless malice creeps across Middle-earth like an insidious shadow. There is discord and suspicion among the different folk of the land, and they have grown apart instead of being united. The races of Elves and Men have long been sundered, and have had no dealings with each other for many years.
> 
> Minas Tirith is the capital of the lands of Anrien, of the former realm of Gondor; it is a flourishing city, wealthy and of much profitable yield; but the people have fallen into greed and selfishness, forsaking the nobler ways in which their forefathers once lived. Men are much more like the ancient Romans that we now know of: sexuality is about rough passions and obsessive power plays. But yet, amidst corrupting desire there still lives in some the rare spirit of the nobility and love of the elder days.
> 
> Central Characters:  
>  \- Boromir has claimed the title of King of Anrien, since the kingdom of Gondor had disintegrated into several smaller states due to internal strife and civil conflict; Faramir is the prince of the city.  
>  \- Aragorn, who is born of true yet forsaken royalty, has returned to Minas Tirith after his wanderings in the wild, and now serves as chief steward of Boromir's household.  
>  \- Gandalf is his trusted friend and counsellor; he is the only other who knows that Aragorn is the true royal heir, biding his time to reclaim his birthright and reunite the scattered peoples of Gondor to their former glory.  
>  \- Legolas is an Elf who had been captured by hunters; a prize of great value, as this story shall tell.
> 
> And due to popular demand, the hobbits will make a cameo appearance in a later chapter.
> 
> Many thanks to Megan and Tyellas, my beta readers.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Semi-AU slave fic; Aragorn/Legolas, Boromir/Legolas. An Elvish slave learns much about the ways of Men -- who, above all else, desire power.

Once a year, the hunters would stop along their route at Minas Tirith, and this was a much-anticipated arrival; they would often bring exotic and strange wares pillaged from far lands: from curiously-fragrant pipe-weed to silver-gold leaves that never wither, and made perfect adornment upon the finest of garments -- and, on occasion, live goods they would also bear. As indeed on this occasion. 

Though the peoples of Minas Tirith transacted with these hunters from afar, they never quite welcomed them. Perhaps an old suspicion still lived in the subconscious of their minds, their better senses warning them against frequent dealings with such rough, uncultured folk. For although these strangers fashioned themselves as `hunters', in truth they were not of the revered Dnedain of the North, whose rare kind seemed to have disappeared, percolated into the very land that they knew so well -- no, these swarthy men were kin to the Easterlings, dangerous and treacherous. Even though Men now conducted business with them for reasons of profitable trade, they still far from trusted them; thus the hunters would not linger long, and in the brief period they stayed, both parties would gain some form of commercial benefit. 

For Minas Tirith was rich, yet secluded from the other realms of Middle-earth; journeys from place to place were avoided, since along the high roads often lurked marauding bands, and it was no longer possible to traverse the lands and hope for a hospitable reception in foreign parts. Middle-earth was divided, fragmented into many different states and territories: each distrustful of the other, and content to roam within its own boundaries and venture little further; thus, missing out on the wonder and beauty that lived in distant corners of the land. 

However, today, there was no need for the people of Minas Tirith to look far beyond their borders for hints of wonder and beauty from the distant horizon; the hunters brought these right to their gates, in their full splendour, great revealed and even greater, yet concealed. For this year, amidst the colourful and amazing array of other goods that they had gleaned on their travels, the hunters had a prized possession that they wished to sell, for a very high price: and just not to any bidder on the street. They wanted audience with King Boromir himself, to present their offer. 

Boromir was mildly suspicious when his court messengers conveyed this to him; he rarely had dealings with these hunters, although he interfered not with his people's choosing to do business with them. It was not to be denied that these hunters often peddled that which was much to be desired in Minas Tirith; trade in such varied and valuable items increased the status of Anrien among the other independent states in the realm of Gondor. 

However, his curiosity was piqued; he saw no harm in conferring with the hunters, and so sent word that he would meet them, as requested. Shortly after noon he left his palace to descend to the gates of the White City, where the hunters would be waiting. 

Faramir, his younger brother and prince of the city, accompanied him; as they strode through the streets the crowds hurriedly parted to let them pass, for they were both fair of face and grand of stature, and the people beheld them with great respect. Boromir was strong, skilled of weapon and equally swift of resolve; he took no wife, and delighted in the art of war; from that love of his also sprang his chief weakness: a tendency toward rash violence. Faramir, who was more learned in lore and music, often had to tactfully restrain his older brother, who could be vicious when provoked and would never suffer even the slightest affront to his pride. 

There was already a large throng of people at the gates, engaged in negotiations and haggling over prices with the traders; however, all activity ceased the moment they saw that King Boromir and Prince Faramir had arrived, and the transactions in progress were put on hold as the hunters gathered forward to speak with the king. There were four of them in all; their leader was a stout man with bushy beard, and an unyielding look about him. 

Unseen by all, a wizened old man materialised as if from nowhere, and stood at a distance, his wide-brimmed hat shading his eyes as he observed the proceedings; his keen, obscured gaze missed nothing. Few knew or saw much of him, save the occasional glimpse; for this elusive, bent figure dwelt usually in the palace, where he was on close terms with the steward of the household. 

Presently, the leader of the hunters stepped forward, and bowed low before the king and prince. 

"Good afternoon, my noble lords," he said with exaggerated politeness; the crooked smile on his lips betrayed his true devious nature, and Boromir was not deceived. 

"What would you desire to speak to me about?" he asked, his tone clipped and formal. "It is the middle of the day, and other matters of import also beckon." 

"Gracious you are, lord, for finding the time to speak with us lowly travelling traders," the leader continued, although the glint in his eye remained. "I'm sure you will discover that your precious time spent here is far from wasted... indeed, you will find much pleasure ere our leave be taken." 

"That I will judge, when I have heard the matter," Boromir said in a non-committal way. 

"Is it not true, as rumours say," the leader said slyly, "that in Minas Tirith and its surrounding country, slavery has been legalised and made a way of life amongst you?" 

"Yes," Boromir replied stiffly, after a brief hesitation. "Yet it is also the manner of the other states in the realm of Gondor, and this is a local statute that has little to do with the trade you deal in." He allowed a tone of impatience to slip into his voice. "Now, what have you to say about your own matter? Speak swiftly, and I will give reply as I deem fit." 

"Very well; I will be brief and direct." The leader turned and signalled to his companions, two of whom went at once to their caravan. They disappeared inside, drawing the flaps closed behind them; there followed some muffled noises from within. 

The crowd waited in anticipation; a few minutes later their heads reappeared and they climbed out, although with some difficulty, as if they were dragging something heavy or reluctant. People craned their necks to catch a glimpse of the load that the two hunters were hauling out of the caravan -- perhaps a treasure chest, full of jewels and lost wonders? -- but they gasped when they finally saw what it was. It was more exquisite and beautiful than jewels, for it was living, and beyond wonders that many of them had ever imagined. Few had beheld another of its kind before; yet to all it was unmistakable what this creature was. 

An Elf. 

They all stared, fascinated by the elf's wild, undefined beauty -- natural as the stars, and captivating as the Sea. It was clear that great effort had been taken by the hunters to preserve this prized possession in its prime condition; yet the elf had not escaped unscathed, perhaps having had to be subdued by force on several occasions prior. There was a fresh bruise flowering on his cheekbone, yet still it did not mar the delicate features set in the pale face; the elf's eyes shone with a defiant light, a silver fire, as he twisted against the leather bands that held his arms behind his back, although to no avail. His blond hair fell in fine, slightly tousled locks upon his slim shoulders. 

One of the hunters started to shove the elf forward, impatiently; but the other quickly hissed at him, and they both made a concerted effort to treat their prisoner less roughly. The elf's ankles were shackled with chains that chafed his smooth skin raw. He wore a tunic of dark green, the raiment of folk who dwell in forests; it hid but flattered the slim body that lay beneath, and was torn in places to reveal pale bare skin. The elf wrenched violently away from the touch of the hunters each time they tried to urge him along; he rebuked them in his own tongue, which sounded melancholic and melodious like a lament of nature. 

Boromir could not take his eyes away from the elf; he was entranced by his beauty, simple yet divine. He was suddenly overcome with the intense desire to have this prize for his own, whatever the cost. The sheer untamed appeal of the elf excited him, much like the thrill of embarking on war: a conquest that lay before him, which he had bent all his thought towards conquering and possessing. It was an instinctive emotion that arose within him: primal yet truthful, and singularly focused. 

The leader of the hunters noticed Boromir's unabashed hunger, and smiled; the king was not known for his subtlety or power in restraint. This boded well for the hunters; perhaps half the battle was already won. 

"Behold!" the leader indicated the elf with a proud sweep of his hand. "This is a prize beyond the reckoning of gold and silver; one of the rarest and most beautiful species that walk the earth, a gem from the forests of Mirkwood in the vast lands beyond. We went forth and brought him hence, since we knew that he would bring you much pleasure, O king. A slave such as this you would likely never see again." 

"You chose well," Boromir acknowledged curtly. "What would you ask for his price?" 

"Only a trifle, my lord," the leader said, his voice placating. "It is but a small thing, a token for a possession as priceless as this; the rest of its value consider a gift of goodwill from our peoples to yours. We ask only for the dwelling places that lie beyond the Anduin, on the farther shore that your city looks upon: the land of Ithilien." 

"You ask for Ithilien!" Boromir laughed sharply, and shook his head. "Then you do belittle the worth of the land, if you think that its length and breadth is worth an exchange for a single slave, even though he be an elf of Mirkwood. Much of the land is not populated, no doubt; yet it has rich resources of game for hunting and fishing, and we will not cast it aside so lightly. It is ours by territorial right, and its value is far greater than what you offer." 

Faramir, standing by Boromir's side, nodded approvingly; however he cast a searching glance at his brother, as if sensing the urgent desire that raged within him, to have this elf as his own. 

"Pardon I beg if I spoke contrary to my intention," the leader said, still glib and smooth of tongue. "Rather we hold Ithilien in high regard. As a travelling folk we have wandered many leagues, homeless; above all, we wish to have a land to call our own. We greatly desire Ithilien, and it would be an honour to dwell at such proximity to your fine city. We have searched far and wide to find this gift to present to you, O King Boromir, and we wish it to find delight in your eyes -- for the elf is immortal, and his beauty will never fade. He would be a fine heirloom of your house for generations to come." 

Boromir looked thoughtful; he was silent for a moment, and the stillness settled without a ripple over the entire assembly as they waited for him to make up his mind. Boromir's restless eyes strayed towards the elf once more, and remained there; the elf looked back at him, and a fiery will burned in his eyes, unbroken still. But rather than being deterred, this aroused a sense of challenge in Boromir; he took a step forward. 

"I shall inspect the gift, ere I give you my reply," he said, not taking his eyes off the elf. 

Faramir looked ill at ease, and he gave the hunters a dark look; he trusted them not, and had never been happy allowing them access to trade at the gates. But he could do nothing except watch Boromir walk towards the elf, who stood his ground. 

Boromir neared the elf, who did not flinch even as he drew to a halt merely inches away; there was still a great fire that blazed in those silver-grey eyes, a fierce resentment at being called a `slave' and traded casually for a plot of land. Even as he looked into the elf's eyes Boromir hesitated to touch him, seeing clearly the explosiveness within this lithe being. However, courage and need bettered his wariness, and he reached forward to brush his hand lightly against the elf's dirt-stained cheek. It was a tender movement, seemingly; although beneath it was a yearning insistence, which the elf evidently detected; he moved a step backwards, breaking contact. 

A shadow of anger flitted across Boromir's face; but a possessive determination triumphed, and he drew back calmly, a grim smile on his face as he turned to the leader, who was waiting eagerly for an answer. 

"I will lease you the land of Ithilien for five years," Boromir finally judged; and Faramir despaired, for he knew his brother had yielded to the temptation to barter their country's land for what was clearly a personal pursuit. "For five years you may dwell there, you and your people; that shall be the price for this elf-slave." He spoke the last word deliberately, and darkly relished the helpless rage in the elf's eyes. 

"Twelve years," countered the leader, driving a hard bargain, playing on the controlled lust he sensed burning in the depths of the king. 

"Seven years and that is my final offer," Boromir said flatly; he may have yearned deeply for the prize offered, but he would not be taken advantage of by reason of weakness. He gave the elf a careless look that disguised the intensity of his true feelings, and turned to face the leader of the hunters. "This which you offer, though of high quality, cannot justify such an exorbitant price. Seven years, and no more." 

The leader consulted briefly with his companions; finally, they acquiesced, and the matter was sealed. The terms were swiftly agreed upon: the captured elf would be promptly handed over to Boromir (for the king did not trust the hunters to treat their captive decently any longer, once his usefulness in negotiating a deal was served); in return, they would receive the written deed giving them leave to roam and live in the deserted realm of Ithilien for seven years. 

Boromir briskly gave instructions with regard to his new elf-slave. 

"Take him back to the palace," he told the guards, who stood by awaiting his word. "And there hand him over to the care of Aragorn, chief steward of my household. He will know what to do; just tell him that I want to see the new slave at the dinner feast tonight, and he will handle the rest of the arrangements." 

The elf gave his new master a long, measured look, as if trying to gauge the person that would rule his life henceforth; and if one wondered that the elf did not feel misery at his capture and sale into a bleak existence in servitude, one only had to look into his eyes to see the volumes of sadness that ached within his soul, which loved nature and beauty and freedom. 

Boromir's manner showed his complacent attitude, now that he had obtained what he wanted; he barely spared the elf a glance as he turned on his heel and departed, with Faramir by his side. The guards came near, and escorted the king's new slave back to the palace; the elf shrugged away their restraining hands on his shoulder, his head still held high. Through it all he said not a word. 

A distance down the road, Faramir fell into stride with Boromir. 

"This is not altogether well, my brother," Faramir advised. "It is a decision too rashly made; we should have taken counsel ere we gave the hunters any reply." 

"There was no need," Boromir replied; he felt pleased with his afternoon's acquisition. "For my mind was already made up; and now, the deal has already been sealed. I cannot go back on my word." 

"But do you really think it wise?" Faramir was troubled; he could not remain silent any longer. "Permitting slavery in our kingdom is one thing, but -- Elves are the Firstborn, and Men are the Followers. That is the way it has been decreed, ere the world begun. Are we not overstepping our boundaries by making an elf a slave of our household? It is contrary to the original purpose of the fair Kindred." 

"He is not a slave of the household," Boromir answered. "He will be my personal slave, and will serve me alone. For I see it purposed that he was offered to _me_ , and -- I do not conceal my heart from you, brother -- I deny not that I desired him, from when I first laid eyes on him." 

Faramir did not think it extraordinary that the elf was offered to Boromir, since he was the king; and, being kinder of heart, Faramir felt pity for the elf. Also, something about the feral desire that his brother had professed alarmed him, although he did not speak of it. 

Instead he asked, "Could we not find some work suitable for him in the palace?" 

Boromir looked at his brother with great surprise. "Faramir, would I have leased out the use of Ithilien to those barbarians, just to recruit another officer in the palace? I think not. Nay, it is the elf -- and his physical beauty -- that I have found great pleasure in." 

"You did not even ask his name," Faramir pointed out. 

"It does not matter," Boromir said brazenly. "He is mine." 

As the two brothers headed back towards the citadel, the wizened old man drew his grey cloak about him, and turned away; then he was gone. Moments later he was seen quickly slipping into the palace by the back doors; news of what he had witnessed he brought to Aragorn, steward of the household, whose duty it had been to remain behind in the palace whilst the king and prince were both absent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [[ In the next chapter: The elf learns about his place in this strange city of Men; and we meet Aragorn, the steward of the house. ]]


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Semi-AU slave fic; Aragorn/Legolas, Boromir/Legolas. The elf learns about his place in this strange city of Men; and we meet Aragorn, the steward of the house.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please refer to the headings in Chapter One, or read the notes at <http://rhysenn.morethanart.org/lotr/tbc-notes.htm> for more detailed exposition of the situation and characters in this AU.  
> Additionally, the premise in this story that Aragorn lives in Minas Tirith serving as steward of the house is based on the canon fact in "Lord of the Rings", Appendix A: 'The Stewards', that Aragorn did indeed return to Gondor; his true identity remained concealed, and he went under the name of Thorongil, and served as a great captain of Ecthelion II.

"An Elf?" Aragorn repeated in amazement, after he heard the brief tale his old friend had to tell. "The king gave those barbarians leave to dwell in Ithilien, in exchange for an _Elf_?" 

Gandalf tilted his head, looking thoughtfully at Aragorn from under his bushy eyebrows. "You seem astounded that an Elf would warrant an exchange such as the lease of Ithilien." 

"No," Aragorn replied. "Rather, I am astounded that the king would trade with those travelling marauders; especially when the possession in question is an Elf, and the price is permission of foreign claim over land that is rightfully ours." In his voice flashed a deep hatred for the `hunters', as they called themselves -- for Aragorn himself was one of the true Dnedain of the North, and he loathed any association with such cruel, ruthless pillagers. He frowned, and then asked, "But how came they to overpower an elf? For although it has been long since I walked among those fair folk, I know that they are deft and nimble, skilled in self-defence at the least." 

"That I know not, either," Gandalf admitted. "I too was surprised, for as far as I have knowledge, Elves rarely move about alone, as among their kindred they find solidarity and strength. Perhaps this one was caught unawares; they bore him a great distance, for in the forests of Mirkwood they waylaid him." 

Aragorn's brow furrowed. "Do you approve, Gandalf?" he asked simply. 

Gandalf sighed. "An Elf, above all kindred, should not be reckoned so lightly; and his freedom is naught for anyone else to barter for personal gain." 

"I think likewise," Aragorn agreed. "It is one thing to command a slave of one's own race; but it is altogether different to strive to control another kind that has preceded us in the grand scheme of life." 

"I fear it is more complicated than that." Gandalf's eyes clouded with storm. "My heart misgives that King Boromir's interest in the elf goes beyond what meets the eye." 

Before Aragorn could ask Gandalf to elaborate, the side doors to the palace opened, and in marched the guards; between them was a slender figure, upright and proud despite the slight slump of the shoulders, weighed with fatigue. The chains bound about his ankles clinked on the marble floor as the elf moved, graceful even while restrained, although he walked with a perceptible limp; he did not resist the guidance of the guards, yet he would not endure being physically led. 

Aragorn's eyes settled on the elf as the guards drew to a halt; the elf looked straight back at him, prevailing dignity evident in his unflinching gaze. He stood silently before Aragorn with the chains pooled around his feet, and his arms still bound behind his back. 

"King Boromir bade us tell you to ready this slave ere the dinner feast this evening," one of the guards formally told Aragorn. "He is an Elf, and the king only just purchased him from the hunters; they warn you to be careful, for they say this slave is not obedient or willing to be commanded." 

"As few free people ever are," Aragorn commented succinctly; Gandalf shot him a quelling look. Aragorn nodded towards the guard. "Very well. I will take him from here; you are dismissed." 

The guard bowed. "We commit him to your care, my lord." They left the elf's side, and exited the hall. 

Aragorn barely noticed the guards' departure; he was too absorbed in studying the elf. He had always been fond of elves, as one would love a strain of tender childhood memory. It had been a long time since he dwelt with the elves, or had any dealings with them; seeing this elf rekindled his affection for the fair kindred, and Aragorn had to consciously remind himself that this elf was not a guest of the house, but rather a slave. 

Aragorn was accustomed to overseeing slaves that worked in the palace; ever since slavery had been legalised in Minas Tirith, the taking of slaves by the wealthy was common, and had become a sign of affluence. But this elf was different from any other slave he had dealt with. There was something special about him -- perhaps it was his unwavering dignity in the face of subjugation, or the way he still wore his freedom like a protective cloak around himself, even when he had been cruelly sold for a tenure of soil. Or maybe it was something else, altogether. 

Finally, Aragorn spoke. 

"What is your name?" he asked. "The name you formerly went by." 

"My name is Legolas Greenleaf," the elf answered; his voice was strong and mellifluous. "And it still remains my name, as will always be." 

"That may not be so," Aragorn told him, frankly. "For in time the king may change your name to one that pleases him, and that shall be your new name." 

"I will answer to none other name than my own," the elf promptly replied in a tone of implicit defiance. 

"It is not your choice." Aragorn said firmly; he masked his own misgivings about the situation, and wore a stern face that demanded respect and obedience. "The king owns you now, and you have no say in matters even pertaining to yourself. That you would do well to understand, and get accustomed to." Through it all Aragorn never spoke the word `slave'. 

"Legolas is the name my father bestowed upon me, ere I was born." The elf raised his eyes to level Aragorn's, and in them there was no fear or hesitance. "I may have been taken far away from my homeland and brought here against my will, but I will never cast aside my heritage -- most precious of which is my own name." 

The elf's words struck a deep chord within Aragorn; he was without a reply for a long moment, lost in his own poignant memories of the meaning of lineage and patrimony. When he looked once again upon the elf standing before him, there was a different light in Aragorn's eyes: softer, as if born of a new understanding. 

"Very well," he said. "Legolas shall be your name, unless the king says otherwise." 

Aragorn expected Legolas to thank him, for this was an uncommon show of consideration towards a slave; but the elf made no answer except for his even gaze. Aragorn waited a moment, and then resumed speaking; there were matters at hand that needed tending, and he pushed the unbidden memories of the past to the fringes of his mind. Briskly he laid down the standard rules of the household, which Legolas had to abide by; the elf listened, and then bowed his head in silent acknowledgement. 

"The afternoon swiftly wears away," Aragorn concluded, "and the king desires to see you at the grand dinner feast this evening. You look tired; you must have travelled many leagues with little rest. When did you depart from Mirkwood?" 

A look of supreme astonishment crossed Legolas's face. 

"How knew you that I am from Mirkwood?" he asked, an innocent eagerness in his voice like one who in a foreign country hears the song of his own land; for Legolas knew the guards had not mentioned his origin to Aragorn, and he had not perceived that Gandalf, who was standing by unobtrusively, had been among the crowd earlier. 

Aragorn gave Legolas an appraising look; it became clear to him now that he could recognise the elf's origin, even had Gandalf not told him before. 

"Your raiment," he answered. "It is of the Wood-elves, who dwell far north beneath the trees of Mirkwood; and your accent and manner of speech are distinctly Sindarin." 

"You are acquainted with our folk?" Legolas asked boldly, once more breaking the rule that slaves never ask questions, and only speak when they are first spoken to. Had there been guards in the hall with them, Aragorn would have had to rebuke the elf; but something moved him now to let it pass, since they were alone save for Gandalf. Instead, he even gave answer to Legolas's question. 

"I have been in your land, many years ago," Aragorn told him. "And I have heard tales of the gladness that lived beneath the oak and beech of Greenwood the Great, ere the darkness fell upon that forest -- a time when the shade under the branches gave only relief and no fear to those who passed through..." he broke off, extricating himself from memories once again; he found Legolas gazing at him with rapt attention, and there was a shimmer of forgotten joy in the elf's bright eyes as he heard the fair recollections of his homeland. 

"But that is no more." Aragorn forced himself to regain his distant composure; he realised that he had already said too much of what he felt. "The darkness has settled upon the land; days of light and beauty have long passed." 

The tentative spark in Legolas's eyes wavered at Aragorn's cold withdrawal; the elf dropped his gaze to the floor, and said no more. 

Aragorn made a concerted effort to return to his task. "You have not yet answered my question, Legolas: when were you brought hence from your dwelling?" 

"I do not know." Legolas's voice was soft, almost painfully so. "I cannot remember, for they often emptied vials of foul concoctions down my throat to subdue me. I drifted in and out of consciousness, and I am not certain how many days or nights have since passed. I have eaten little, and my head aches." 

"You will be fed, and clothed with fresh garments." Aragorn felt a twinge of sympathy for Legolas; not pity, for the elf was too proud for that. "Then you may rest to regain your strength before the feast." 

"Perhaps it would also be well to remove his bonds, if he gives his word not to struggle with you or attempt flight." Gandalf's calm voice now spoke, and both Aragorn and Legolas turned towards him. There was a brief flicker of gratitude in Legolas's eyes as he looked at Gandalf. 

Aragorn turned his attention to Legolas's chains. True enough, they were cruel and too tight for comfort, and bit into the soft flesh encircling the elf's ankles. He resolved to free Legolas from them; but first, he needed assurance that it would not be folly to do so. 

"If I rid you of your bonds," he addressed Legolas, who listened attentively, "do you promise not to tussle with me, or hazard escape the moment you are liberated?" 

"I give my word," Legolas answered decisively, as if the word of a slave still held worth, other than in his own eyes. 

Aragorn approached him, drawing out his sword as he went; Legolas watched the blade with keen eyes, but did not recoil. Going around him, Aragorn laid a palm on Legolas's hands to steady them, and deftly sliced the leather bands with an upward flick of the sword. The bands fell in shreds to the floor, and Legolas rubbed his wrists ruefully. Then Aragorn knelt to inspect the chains -- they were thick and sturdy, but the locks that secured them were not. With a sharp strike of his sword he broke each lock to pieces, yet did not cause excessive pain to Legolas on impact. Carefully he removed the chains, and saw that the flesh beneath was reddened and sore. 

Aragorn straightened; as he stepped back, he caught the elf's soft voice, on the wings of a barely audible whisper: "Thank you." 

He nodded, and signalled for Legolas to follow him; and Legolas did, without having to be told again. Aragorn bade farewell to Gandalf, and his old friend went forth from the hall. Aragorn would probably not see him for the rest of the day, since Gandalf never attended feasts with the officials of Minas Tirith. But Gandalf always had a knack of appearing just when he was needed, at precisely the right time. 

Presently Aragorn brought Legolas into the bath house -- as with the rest of the palace it was a grand chamber, lit with candles white as ivory, which never seemed to burn down. Inside, it was separated into two areas: on the right were the cubicles for the officials, and each held a bath tub carved out of a block of solid black marble veined with pearl, ornately decorated with designs etched in gold. A curtain that looked delicate and translucent as thin silk, yet was made of waterproof material, could be drawn around the tub. 

On the left were the smaller cubicles meant for servants: the tubs were small and plain, with no surrounding curtain, and the baths did not have the luxury of hot water. Aragorn turned to Legolas, and beckoned him towards one of those cubicles. Legolas hesitated briefly, and then in a respectful manner requested that he be allowed to bathe alone. 

This was not the traditional way with new slaves: they were not permitted to bathe unassisted, perhaps in fear that they might, in their wild desperation, attempt to drown themselves in the tub. Aragorn vacillated within himself for a few moments, but finally he gave in to Legolas's request. 

Aragorn was surprised to find himself slightly disappointed as he withdrew to give Legolas some privacy, although he lingered just without, waiting. Against the flickering candlelight that played across the smooth wet walls of the bath house, he could see the silhouette of Legolas's naked form. The elf was tall and slender, his arms and legs defined and lean; Aragorn saw that he was very beautiful. 

Servants were called to bring new garments for Legolas; since King Boromir wanted the elf to attend the feast, Aragorn judged that he should be arrayed in a proper manner befitting a public appearance. Shortly later Legolas emerged, and Aragorn had to fight to contain his amazement -- for although Legolas had been attractive clad in his stained, dark green raiment of Mirkwood, now dressed in finer robes he looked stunning. 

Legolas wore a simple tunic of pale-white -- it would have been modest, except that it was too short on him; and because he was too slim, it was suggestively loose, sliding about his lean shoulders. The collar stood apart, revealing his graceful neck. Legolas wore tight-fitting black leggings that reached down to his ankles, hiding his injuries; and the way these enhanced his legs pushed the boundaries of decency. Aragorn wondered if he had chosen robes too splendid for the elf to wear -- but he soon realised that it was Legolas who added beauty to the fabrics that arrayed him, and not vice versa. 

Moreover, slaves were never called to be in attendance at feasts; this was the first time he had been given such instructions, and Aragorn wanted to make sure Legolas was aptly attired for the occasion. He cast a brief thought as to why the king had issued this order; but then, cutting a sidelong glance at Legolas, he understood perfectly well why Boromir had decided to claim him to dwell in Minas Tirith. And Legolas was an Elf -- they were a rare sight those days in the South. 

Even now it had almost slipped Aragorn's mind that Legolas was actually a slave, for the elf's manner and gait were cultured and dignified. Aragorn set him in no bonds, although he did not give Legolas a belt to gird around his waist, as was the custom to array guests of the king's feast with. 

Afterwards Aragorn had some food brought before Legolas, who seemed weak from hunger. It was quail's meat -- more special than the usual fare, since it was part of leftover samples from the spread for the feast. However, when the elf saw the dish set before him, he looked dismayed and shook his head. 

"I cannot eat this," he told Aragorn earnestly. "In the forests of Mirkwood birds are our friends, especially those who roost in the branches of the trees and do us no harm. The flesh of friendly birds we do not eat; and the meat of evil birds we do not touch. That is our way of life." 

Aragorn now realised the folly of his kindness towards Legolas -- for it now seemed that Legolas had become comfortable in his presence, and treated him more as an equal than a superior. In Minas Tirith slaves were not accorded such luxury of choice; and as far as Aragorn could see Legolas was clearly a `slave', though he was loath to use that term. Such behaviour could not be tolerated -- it would be interpreted as impudence, and an insolent slave would be punished until he learnt his lesson. 

"And this is _our_ way of life," Aragorn said firmly, pushing the plate of quail's meat in front of Legolas, who regarded it with revulsion. "You would do well to forget your old way of life, Legolas, because that is past. It does not matter if you accept it, or not -- you will have to live with it." 

"No," Legolas said in a whisper; his eyes hazed over with pain and sadness. "I do not wish to live like this." 

"You cannot speak in such a manner!" Aragorn hissed fiercely, standing up with an abruptness that startled even Legolas, who looked up at him with eyes that shone liquid silver. "Do you not understand? You will suffer greatly if you do not relinquish this stubborn attitude of yours! Do not speak that way in front of me again!" 

Legolas looked thoroughly stunned, and subsided; he said nothing for a long while. Aragorn gazed at him, and wondered how he had allowed himself to develop a certain kind of affection for this elf-slave -- he finally admitted to himself that was what Legolas truly was -- in such a short span of time. 

Finally, Legolas spoke; his voice was quiet, subdued. "I never saw you before, when you walked the paths of Mirkwood." 

Aragorn gave him a slanted look. "Perhaps you did, but could not recognise that it was me." 

"Nay," Legolas said with a small shrug. "We would have noticed you without delay; for Men move recklessly when sometimes there is need for stealth. The rustle of the grasses as they pass through often gives them away." He paused. "Perhaps you will allow me to speak some advice: if you run with a purpose ahead of you, the surer it will be that you will reach your destination. Warriors are sometimes aimless, and lack purpose; that is their undoing." 

"I gave you no permission to speak your advice, yet you proceeded without my leave." Aragorn said severely. "Pay close attention, Legolas: for I will give you some counsel, too." 

"What will your counsel be?" Legolas asked. 

"This," Aragorn said, as he rose to his feet; the time for the dinner feast was drawing near. Following his lead, Legolas stood up as well. Aragorn turned to face him, and continued, "Do not ask any questions -- some things are better left unanswered. For your pride will be your undoing." 

"You do not understand," Legolas said, and there was a desperate intensity in his eyes as he looked at Aragorn. "I have lost everything that has meaning in my life -- my home, my happiness, my freedom. My pride is all I have." 

"And you possess it to your own ruin," Aragorn said; with a sweeping turn he strode towards the feasting hall. Legolas paused a moment, and then followed him. The plate of quail's meat remained on the table, untouched.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [[ In the next chapter: The grand dinner feast takes place, and Legolas is brought before King Boromir -- will pride beget a fall?]]


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The grand dinner feast takes place, and Legolas is brought before King Boromir -- will pride beget a fall?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Story Notes: Please refer to the headings in Chapter One, or read the notes at <http://rhysenn.morethanart.org/lotr/tbc-notes.htm> for more detailed exposition of the situation and characters in this AU.

The Spring Feast was a grand and elaborate event, which the kitchen servants began preparations for several days in advance. It was held annually in Merethrond, the Great Hall of Feasting: a large sprawling floor built upon a pavilion, edged by white carved pillars that upheld the cavernous ceilings above. Today, it was bedecked in colours of verdant green and sparkling silver for the occasion. 

The high officials of the palace had their place at the exclusive Velvet Table, situated upon a broad elevated dais laid with a fine purple carpet, where the king himself would dine. The other grandees at the feast were prominent guild masters and merchants of Minas Tirith; almost all in attendance were male. Apart from the wine and fine food, there would also be live entertainment -- some of the performances tended to be very sensual, and as the evening passed, excesses in drink would also loosen inhibitions; for most of the guests, the night would usually culminate in sexual gratification of some kind. 

Legolas was brought into Merethrond unshackled, for he was a slave, not a prisoner. Everyone present watched Legolas with avid eyes -- most had not seen elves in a long time, and murmured comments were made about the beauty of King Boromir's new slave. But no one dared lay a hand on Legolas, as he belonged to the king. 

Faramir was already there. Aragorn had a seat at the Velvet Table; after instructing Legolas to stand aside by a pillar to await the king's arrival, he settled down next to the prince, for they were great friends. Faramir regarded the elf with troubled interest; he spoke to Aragorn in a low voice. 

"My brother has set his heart on that elf," Faramir said. "I am sure you have heard about the leasing of Ithilien for seven years, as the acquisition price of the elf. Truth be told I counselled against it -- but to no avail, for Boromir desires him greatly." 

There was something in Faramir's remarks and tone that struck a cold nerve within Aragorn; he liked not the sound of them, and the foreboding he had from the start grew deeper. Gandalf's ominous words echoed in his mind: //My heart misgives that King Boromir's interest in the elf goes beyond what meets the eye.// 

"The reason for the king's delight in the elf is plain to see," Aragorn said, although he was careful not to reveal his suspicion. "For he is beautiful; and being an Elf, likely very talented and skilled in many ways." 

"Well, perhaps he will also be adept in what the king desires him for," Faramir replied, casting another glance at Legolas; the elf was gazing off into the distance, not seeming to notice the intense scrutiny he was under, from almost every eye in the hall. Faramir turned back to Aragorn, and resumed, "I would not be so uneasy, had he not been an Elf. But... well, I suppose every effort must still be made to fulfil the king's wishes. So I shall hold my peace. My brother has laboured hard for Minas Tirith; he deserves some reprieve." 

"Do you imply," Aragorn could no longer withhold his burning question, "that the king wishes the elf to be his -- _personal_ slave? And to -- serve him, in any manner he might ask?" 

Faramir nodded. "Have you not heard the rumour that has been spreading like wildfire among all the court officials? They have talked of naught else all afternoon, and even now the entire city must be aroused in curiosity. But -- oh, little wonder that you have not heard -- you have been tending to the elf since he arrived, preparing him for the feast. You have done well, and I am sure my brother will be greatly pleased -- the elf looks splendid." 

"Legolas." Aragorn said shortly. "His name is Legolas." 

"A fair name for one of his kindred," Faramir said; Aragorn silently agreed with him as he gazed at the elf, who stood quietly where he had been instructed. Legolas looked like a living statue of marble, carved and kindled by the hands of the gods themselves. "It is regrettable that he cannot dwell here as a resident of Minas Tirith; but my brother has made it eminently clear that he sought the prized possession solely as his own to enjoy." 

"With the payment of the lands of our people?" Aragorn said obliquely; even as he spoke a painful twinge awoke inside him, twisting deeply. 

"I did not wish this to come to pass," Faramir answered. "You know, better than anyone else, how I was grieved when the law permitting slavery in our realm was enacted. But then, as now, I remain powerless to overrule the king's decision. My brother is stubborn and strong-willed -- he knows what he wants, and he will stop at naught to get it." 

As they were speaking, King Boromir entered the hall. He was dressed in the finest royal robes, and he looked magnificent. The gathered guests rose, and with a gesture of his hand Boromir bade them all join him; everyone settled down into their places. 

Boromir's eyes swept across the hall; but he missed Legolas, who was standing partially concealed behind the pillar. He turned to Aragorn and asked, "Where is the elf-slave of mine?" 

Aragorn gritted his teeth as he stood. "He is waiting by the pillar, lord." He surmised that Boromir meant no real malice by referring to Legolas as `slave', but only spoke with careless insensitivity; however Aragorn could see the dark fire in Legolas's eyes, and knew that the elf greatly resented it. 

"Bring him forth to me," came the command. 

Aragorn went over to Legolas, and escorted him towards Boromir; Legolas walked with graceful strides, his unwillingness imperceptible in his light steps as he drew closer to stand before the king. Then Aragorn left his side, and Legolas stood alone. 

Boromir regarded Legolas with languid satisfaction; he let his gaze slide up and down the slender body before him, a prelude to what was his to touch and bend to his will as he pleased. The entire assembly watched in fascination. 

Finally Boromir rose to his feet, and addressed the guests; as he spoke, he laid his hand possessively on Legolas's shoulder, drawing him near. 

"Here I present before you a jewel from lands afar," he said, his voice proud and sonorous, "brought to our gates as a prize to be held within the realm of Anrien, aye, even kept within the palaces of Minas Tirith. He is an Elf from the distant forests of Mirkwood, where he must have been among the fairest of creation that walked there under moon and starlight. 

"For a price worthy of his exquisiteness he was bought, and henceforth I alone will he be obliged to serve. By day he shall work as I please, and he will dwell in my chambers at night. He will feast by my side, and not as one of the servants." 

Boromir let his hand slide down Legolas's body to rest on the small of his back; the elf stiffened, yet mustered enough self-control not to react. Boromir did not sense the tenseness in the body next to him, and he continued, "Let it be known in all the city that this elf is my possession! I am now his master, and exclusive and faithful he shall be; and his name shall be called --" 

"My lord," Aragorn said as he stood up abruptly, interrupting the king's speech; Boromir turned to look at him questioningly. "Pardon me; but the elf's rightful name is Legolas. And perhaps it would please you to name him such -- it is a beautiful name, meaning `green leaf' in the Elvish tongue. For he is indeed slender and rare as a mallorn leaf, and evergreen in his youth." 

Aragorn sat down; he felt an odd heat burning on his cheeks, and when he looked up again, he saw that Legolas's eyes were fixed on him, filled with a new light of wonder. 

Boromir was greatly pleased with Aragorn's suggestion. "Very well! He shall be called Legolas by all in this realm. Perhaps he will be comforted by the use of his familiar name." 

There was applause from the guests as Boromir sat down, and Legolas was given a lower seat by his side; the food was served without further ado. Legolas was given a portion of whatever dishes his master partook. He ate swiftly, yet seemed preoccupied, caught in a deep thought that only he knew. Boromir barely spoke to him, engaging instead in conversation with his officials; Aragorn joined in the talk at occasional points, although he was on the whole distracted. 

The soup for the evening was brought: it was a delicacy, rich and fragrant, and was served only to the king and those dining at the Velvet Table, while the other guests received another variety of stew. Legolas watched with a deepening frown as the servant ladled out the soup; when he was given his portion, he examined it closely, and for the first time that evening he spoke. 

"May I inquire what soup this is?" he said quietly, looking across the table to Aragorn; he spoke so softly that no one else noticed him. 

"It is a speciality of the culinary masters of Minas Tirith," Aragorn answered. "It has been double-boiled with the swallow's nest and eggs, which are known to do much for one's physical health." 

"Among other things!" Another official quipped; laughter rippled through the company. 

Legolas's jaw dropped, and he looked utterly shocked. He stared at the soup, revolted, and seemed on the verge of pushing the bowl away from him, a clear symbol of rejection of a dish so highly valued; but he looked up, and caught Aragorn's eye again. The steward was watching him intently, and his warning gaze spoke volumes; it stayed Legolas's hand. 

"This is _our_ way of life, Legolas," Aragorn said meaningfully, in a low but intense voice that could barely be discerned above the din; but he knew that Legolas heard him. "Down your pride, together with that soup." 

Aragorn saw that the elf was undergoing a great internal struggle -- the turmoil of his natural instincts against his better judgement. Finally, Legolas bowed his head, and spoon by spoon choked the entire bowl of agonising soup down his throat, clearly forcing himself not to gag each time he gulped; when he finally set down the empty bowl, Legolas looked like he was going to be sick. 

Following the meal, Boromir beckoned Legolas to his side on the couch as the performances started; there was enthusiastic applause and catcalls at the dancers. Wine glasses were drained, and refilled; as the night grew deeper, the laughter from the grandees at the feast grew louder, more raucous, and their faces became flushed with the heat of intoxication in their veins. 

Aroused by the sensual movements of the performers and the wine he had consumed, Boromir leaned in; with one strong hand he turned Legolas's face towards him, and kissed the elf's lips, gently at first, then more insistently. Legolas did not move; he let Boromir kiss him, although he did not return the affection. However, he was forced to concede when Boromir's tongue pried his lips apart and slid into his mouth. Now both of Boromir's hands were holding his head still so that he could not turn aside; the kiss was firm and dominant, as if marking a territory. 

But all the while that Boromir kissed him Legolas's eyes were on Aragorn; their eyes met briefly, before Aragorn quickly looked away. Legolas dropped his gaze sorrowfully; then he became aware that the king had begun to undo the fastenings on his tunic. 

Legolas froze, his entire body going rigid as a detached horror flooded through him. Boromir's mouth was still upon his, and the kisses grew fiercer, more passionate. But when Boromir slid his hand inside his parted tunic and began to caress the bare skin that lay beneath, Legolas could not endure any longer -- with a soft gasp he jerked back, his eyes wild with fear and a trapped desperation. 

"Please, lord," Legolas whispered, shaking his head pleadingly. "Do not use me in this manner. It is not the way with my people." 

There was a shocked murmur from the officials around the table, who had been watching the king's advances upon his slave with great interest; Aragorn's head snapped up in horrified disbelief. Boromir looked startled beyond words as he stared at the elf, who edged away from him -- rage quickly flooded in to replace incredulity. 

"Please," Legolas repeated fervently; and if Boromir were not so enraged, maddened by his hurt pride and dark lust, he would have been moved by some inherent sympathy. But now, his dark eyes were aflame with wrath as he regarded Legolas. The king was keenly aware that all his court officials were observing his every move, and it angered him greatly that they witnessed the elf's defiance towards him -- for the sake of his own dignity, it could not go unpunished. 

Boromir drew back his right hand and struck Legolas hard across his face. The impact sent the elf reeling, as he slipped from the edge of the couch and fell to the floor. Everyone at the Velvet Table stared, too stunned to react; word of the king's fury rippled quickly through the rest of the guests, and all eyes turned expectantly toward the elevated dais. 

Aragorn clenched his teeth, forcing himself to hold his silence. He gripped the sides of his chair tightly with both hands as he watched Legolas struggle into an upright position. Blood flowed from a cut on the elf's lower lip, and flecks of red stained the white collar of his tunic, which was half-unfastened down the front. 

Now Boromir seized Legolas by his arm, and dragged him to his feet; he turned and flung the elf down onto the couch again. Legolas put up little resistance; he still looked dazed from the blow, and the strength sapped from him through his long journey from the North had probably not been recovered. 

"Perhaps you have not yet sufficiently learned the meaning of being my slave, Legolas," Boromir said harshly, advancing towards him; the elf recoiled instinctively. "Well listen now, and remember once and for all -- it means that you will do _exactly_ as I wish, without question or protest. Do you understand?" 

"I will carry out your bidding," Legolas said, his voice surprisingly strong and clear. "But I petition you to take no more from me than my service for your city." 

Boromir gave a mirthless smile. "You insult the officials of my court who are reclining around this table, foolish elf," he said coldly. "They are talented and shrewd men who serve me and the peoples of Minas Tirith with their wisdom and skill -- how dare a slave request the same as the honoured members of my council?" 

Boromir leaned in, and Legolas flinched in anticipation of another blow; but it never fell. He slowly raised his gaze to look at Boromir -- uncertainty and helplessness blazed in his bright elven eyes, which still did not yield. 

"You, Legolas, are my _personal_ slave," Boromir continued; his voice was pierced with steel. "And your place is to serve me _personally_ , in any manner that I demand." 

"My lord," Legolas whispered, desperately, "It is not--" 

"And you will call me Master." Boromir's voice was merciless, filled with thinly controlled anger. 

Legolas saw that it was hopeless; he bowed his head in silent defeat. Boromir looked satisfied, and took the elf by the wrist and pulled him to his feet. With his fingers he wiped the drying blood away from Legolas's lip in an oddly tender gesture, and then he bent forward and kissed Legolas hard on the mouth. The elf did not move; but as Boromir's hands began to ease the tunic off his shoulders, Legolas shuddered and broke the lip-lock. He turned his face away from the king -- he could not bear to look at anyone now, least of all Aragorn. 

"Please... master," Legolas said softly, hoping in a last attempt to avert what was to come. "Please do not do this -- I beg of you." 

Boromir took a step backwards; his face was flushed with wine and fury and lust, and he regarded Legolas with an intense and terrible expression in his eyes. 

"This slave still needs to be trained, it seems -- perhaps he should be taught to beg for other things." Boromir looked grim as he nodded at his guards, who stood by awaiting orders. "Take him to my chambers without delay; I shall deal with him privately, and spare our guests the tediousness of his defiance." 

Aragorn saw the look of utter desolation on Legolas's face as the guards took hold of him, and escorted him from Merethrond. He also saw the way Boromir's hard eyes followed the slender elf, coldly calculating the punishment for his slave's disgraceful behaviour in front of his guests. 

Faramir, seated beside him, said nothing; but a sidelong glance at the prince told Aragorn that the king's younger brother did not approve of what he had witnessed. Nevertheless, with Boromir in such a dangerous, volatile mood, even Faramir did not dare contradict him -- for they all knew that the king could be swiftly provoked, and in the heat of his anger he was fearsome indeed. 

After lingering briefly, Boromir took leave to attend to `other matters'; he assured the guests that he would return soon, and encouraged them to continue their merrymaking without him. It was customary for such feasts to last even until dawn; the celebrations would still be in full swing several hours later. 

Aragorn watched the king depart, and a feeling of distinct unease churned in his stomach, like a knife being slowly twisted. Shortly thereafter he too excused himself, and exited the hall. 

He went outside alone, into the open courtyard. As he looked up at the stars in the heavens, they reminded him of the silver brightness of Legolas's eyes, filled a light that radiated from within: living beauty blazing strong yet remote, as if out of great depths of time, fathomless and eternal. 

He knew that he bore part of the blame. He had not helped Legolas get accustomed to life as a slave in Minas Tirith; he had only succeeded in making the elf forget, for a little while, the stark truth of who he now was. And although it had been gentle and comforting for Legolas in those moments, like the sweet intoxication of wine -- now it would be twice as bitter to swallow, as the brutal truth sank doubly deep. 

Aragorn felt a hollow ache within him. He lowered his eyes, and gazed upon the stars no more; for they brought him a sadness that gnawed deep in his heart, and troubled his soul.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [[ In the next chapter: Boromir asserts his authority, and Aragorn struggles with feelings that he cannot ignore. ]]


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Boromir asserts his authority, and Aragorn struggles with feelings that he cannot ignore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Rape, BDSM, Graphic Sex, Violent Sex  
> Story Notes: Please refer to the headings in Chapter One, or read the notes at <http://rhysenn.morethanart.org/lotr/tbc-notes.htm> for more detailed exposition of the situation and characters in this AU.

The king's quarters were lavishly decorated. Fine tapestries hung from the wood-panelled walls of his grand study, although Legolas was led past them with such speed that he could not clearly discern the scenes they each depicted. But he knew most of them were tributes to momentous scenes of battle, the proud and bitter history of Men laid out across the walls, immortalised in the corridor of Time. 

Legolas felt a sickened sense of dread as he caught sight of the bed. It was large and fitted with expensive white linen sheets, and covers woven of the finest wool. The posts at each corner were wrought of copper, engraved with decorative runes that he could not recognise. 

Legolas looked around him in desperation and misery, and it was not claustrophobia but a different kind of wild fear that set in. The magnificent furnishings of the bedchamber meant nothing to him -- it was like being locked up in a prison with walls of gold. 

He had heard many rumours of the ways of Men: how they delighted in warfare and the domination of their own kind, and how men who kept thralls often took the women of the conquered to wife by force. Legolas knew perfectly well what the king -- his _master_ \-- wanted from him. Now, his only fear was the ordeal he had to endure before the night would be over. How could the night bring such cruelty, when the stars of Elbereth shone brightly above in all their silver beauty? 

He heard the sharp echo of Boromir's resolute strides drawing closer, growing louder like a knell of doom. Legolas's heartbeat quickened, and he swallowed hard. He had never felt so trapped in his entire life -- there had always been some hidden path that led away to safety, or the comforting sound of an elven voice nearby. But now there was nothing, except the metallic clang of the bolts being slid aside as the door opened. 

Boromir entered the chamber, and he immediately saw Legolas lingering near the bed; a smile lifted the sides of his proud mouth, and in his eyes there blazed a fire of intense longing. The door shut behind him with finality. The moment of resounding silence that ensued strung the atmosphere with a cold harshness. 

He drew closer to Legolas, who stood still, his slender body rigid as a winter-frozen tree. The king's eyes savoured the vision of living beauty before him; although they also perceived the elf's silent defiance, and resolved to break it. 

"Undress," he commanded sternly, and took a step backwards to watch. 

Legolas regarded him with resentful dignity; but with a despairing glance at the bolted door, he knew that he had no chance for escape. He had no other choice but to obey. With quavering hands he unfastened the front of his tunic and gracefully shrugged it off his shoulders, laying it neatly by the side. Then, with greater effort, he slid the black leggings down his thighs. 

Boromir watched with hungry eyes as the elf removed every stitch of garment, and finally stood naked before him. The dim firelight played across the contours of Legolas's body: glimmering on the smooth skin of his long, slender legs, defining the proud uprightness of his shoulders, turning his blond hair gold like the sunset, kindling in his bright, fiery eyes. 

"You are beautiful." Boromir was unable to contain the passion within him as he strode closer, and took Legolas in his arms. 

He kissed the elf fiercely, allowing his hands to roam freely over the pale, silky skin; Legolas held his breath and did not move a muscle, willing himself to remain still. He relaxed momentarily only when the king pulled away to undress, but he knew that it was just a brief respite. 

"Why do you keep silent?" Boromir turned back to Legolas after he had stripped off his own robes. "Do you not hear my words of praise for you?" 

An inscrutable expression shimmered in the elf's eyes. 

"How can you say that I am beautiful, when you do not know me?" Legolas spoke in a careful, measured voice. "My outward appearance pleases you; but while that may be counted attractiveness, it is not beauty." He paused. "One cannot judge beauty in the absence of knowledge -- or love." 

Anger flashed like sudden lightning in Boromir's eyes, perhaps provoked by the insinuation in Legolas's words that he lacked the kinder, more refined qualities. He stalked forward, seized Legolas by the shoulders and roughly shoved him backwards onto the bed. 

"You speak with insolence yet, elf," Boromir's voice bore a dangerous tone, as he leaned closer, trapping Legolas's face in his hand. "Your reckless arrogance will do you great disservice. Why do you still resist me?" 

"I know what you desire of me." There was a tortured acceptance in Legolas's voice. "But it is not our custom to enter into a... physical bond, with another that one hardly knows. Please do not force me." 

Boromir remained unmoved by Legolas's plea; the sight of the elf lying naked on his bed was enough to drive out the last vestige of sound reason. "It is also not the custom among Men who own slaves to allow them to attend dinner feasts, unless for the purpose of pleasuring the guests. It is clear that you do not appreciate the special treatment you have received. Perhaps you need a more literal form of training to impress upon you that you are bonded to carry out my bidding." 

He moved back, and retrieved a soft black leather sash from a wardrobe; Legolas eyed it with alarm as Boromir drew near once more. 

"Kneel on the bed," Boromir instructed. "And lean forward, so your hands are wrapped around the right bed-post." 

Legolas slowly complied. Boromir proceeded to bind the sash tightly around the elf's wrists several times, tying them securely to the bedpost. It was an awkward position for Legolas -- he was forced to lean his weight forward, and the sash cut tighter around his wrists as he moved. The flickering candlelight danced across the glazed skin of his exposed back; his knees sank into the soft mattress, which dipped as Boromir climbed onto the bed. 

Boromir spread Legolas's legs apart, and moved in between them. A jar of oil stood on the table next to the bed; Legolas heard Boromir open the jar, and he tensed as he felt the king's fingers push inside of him, slick with oil. 

"Please," Legolas whispered desperately. His face flushed in mortification at the intimate invasion: insistent fingers probed deeply, stretching him. "Please, do not..." 

"I wish to know you now," Boromir murmured in his ear, as he withdrew his hand and shifted closer. "Do not struggle, and it will go better." 

Boromir slid himself into the elf with a single smooth thrust. Legolas gasped in pain, and gritted his teeth as he forced himself not to dwell on the searing sensation that consumed him whole, like stabs of a knife. He closed his eyes, and a dizzy spectrum of colour streaked behind his closed lids -- crimson, dissolving into black. 

Then Boromir did a strange thing. He suddenly stopped moving, and held perfectly still, completely sheathed inside the trembling body beneath him. Then one of his hands went around Legolas's waist, and grasped the elf firmly between his legs. Boromir began to stroke him, and with satisfaction he felt the flesh caught in his palm grow hard. 

Legolas quivered helplessly -- his hands were tied, and he was trapped between the shaft lodged deep inside him and the hand that now kindled his own arousal. He was unable to restrain the way his body was reacting to Boromir's ministrations; he shuddered as Boromir's hand coaxed him further, and to his own horror, Legolas found himself automatically pushing forward against the delicious friction of the king's cupped palm around him. 

Boromir smiled, and relished the way Legolas was responding to him. His fingers artfully worked faster, drawing the elf towards completion, and he felt Legolas shake uncontrollably under his hands, wracked with the raw sensation that burned both ways. Then, as he held the elf on the very brink of climax, Boromir claimed him once more. 

He drove himself deeper, eliciting a choked cry from Legolas. He began to ride the elf with slow deliberate strokes; then with a tightening of his hand, Boromir finally granted him release. With a ragged sob Legolas came, and his body shook with the explosion of pain twisted with hateful pleasure. Brimming with dark ecstasy, Boromir gripped Legolas's waist and pulled the elf back against him, one last time. Legolas took him over the edge, and with hard, sharp breaths he poured himself out into the elf's body. 

When Boromir finally withdrew and released him, Legolas's limbs were crying out from the awkward position they had been confined in -- but more than that, the humiliation of his own shameful pleasure tore his spirit to shreds. He closed his eyes; he was vaguely aware of Boromir loosening the leather belt tying his hands to the bedpost. He crumpled to the floor, and covered his face with his hands. 

"I will return to the feast now. You will remain here, and you may rest for the night." Boromir briskly got dressed, and then turned back to Legolas; his gaze slid over the naked, shivering body of the elf, and his expression softened slightly. "Arrangements will be made for a set of sleeping robes for you." 

The elf gave no answer, and kept his head lowered; Boromir watched him with a sharp glint in his eye. "Do you hear me, Legolas, or have you not yet learned your lesson?" 

"Yes," Legolas said in a broken whisper. "I have heard your words." 

"Then answer when you are spoken to!" Boromir said harshly. "Have you so swiftly forgotten that you are to call me Master? And where is your gratitude for the luxury of new robes for you to sleep in?" 

"Thank you, master." Legolas's voice was soft and hollow. 

"Good." Boromir was satisfied. "Perhaps you will soon see that a life in thrall is not as dire as you would think it to be -- after all, you have just amply demonstrated how you have found great pleasure even whilst being dominated by me." 

Legolas remained silent, and kept his eyes downcast. Boromir gave the elf an appraising look, and then took a few steps forward. He reached down, and Legolas flinched at his touch; but Boromir took his arm firmly and pulled him to his feet. 

"You are beautiful," Boromir said once more, in a low, husky voice, as he stroked Legolas's face with one hand, touching the bruise on his cheekbone that was not of his doing. Then he kissed the elf fully on the mouth, his manner hard and possessive; Legolas parted his lips to allow entry to Boromir's searching tongue, but otherwise did not move. 

Boromir drew back with a frown, noticing Legolas's lack of responsiveness. "You cannot deny that you derived your enjoyment just now. Why do you still refuse to serve me willingly?" 

"Pain does much to dull willingness." Legolas answered quietly, raising his eyes to level Boromir's; there was still some spirit left in them, however crushed and wretched. 

"Yes." An unnamed emotion flitted across the king's face. "But pain also does much to help remembrance -- and I know that you shall never forget this night." 

With that, Boromir swept out of the bedchamber; the bolt was shot home. Legolas waited until the footsteps faded away into cold silence, before he allowed the bitter tears to fall. He slumped back against the wall and slid to the floor, a body beautiful and broken. 

* * *

Aragorn hurried along the corridors, heading toward the king's bedchamber. He had been issued orders from Boromir to clothe Legolas in sleeping garments, and ensure that the elf was securely locked into the room. His haste, however, was not owing to a desire to carry out the king's instructions swiftly; something else burned within him, mingled dread and anxiety. 

He spoke briefly to the guard outside the bedchamber, and was permitted entry. Opening the door cautiously, Aragorn looked inside -- he immediately saw Legolas huddled on the floor, a forlorn prisoner in his cavernous cell. 

The elf seemed startled to see him, and sprang to his feet, backing away. But Aragorn could see that he moved slowly, slightly bent over, as if from some internal ache. There was a wild terror in Legolas's eyes even though he seemed to recognise Aragorn, and he edged away, until he was backed up against the far wall. 

Aragorn opened his mouth, wanting to reassure the elf; but as his eyes swept over Legolas's exposed body, slender and beautiful, something else speared through him, like a poisoned dart. And at that very moment he could see why Boromir was overcome with such great desire for the elf -- and a new, dark temptation crept through Aragorn's veins as he drank up the titillating sight of Legolas standing naked in front of him: golden-blond hair and silver-pale skin, glistening and moist and smooth as silk... 

//No one would know.// 

The primal voice inside Aragorn's head dominated his thoughts as he walked closer to Legolas, each step slow and measured. The elf was cornered, and completely at his mercy. The king had returned to the feast, and all the other palace officials were merry-making. The guard stationed outside would not hear a single sound, or enter the king's chambers without permission. 

If he wanted, he could have Legolas for himself. He held a high place in the household; even if Legolas dared to speak up afterwards, the king would never believe a slave's word over his own steward's. This was the perfect opportunity -- and no one would ever know. 

Legolas seemed to read the dark emotion hidden in Aragorn's eyes; he recoiled further. Retreating into a corner, he snatched up his white tunic that lay near his feet, and wrapped it around his waist, salvaging some of his decency. When his eyes met Aragorn's, they were filled with fear and hopelessness. 

"What would you ask of me?" Legolas spoke in a quavering voice, frayed with distinct bitterness. "Do you wish for me to please you, as well?" 

Aragorn's vision blurred slightly: for a moment he saw only the colour of bare skin, of flesh laid before him, ready for the taking. The quiet defiance in Legolas's words ignited a flame within him, and he strode forward, trapping Legolas against the wall. 

"Do you taunt me, Legolas?" Aragorn asked; the heated passion in his tone surprised even himself. "Or are _you_ asking me for something?" 

"No!" Legolas answered immediately, a desperate plea in his voice. He looked at Aragorn, plainly scared, utterly helpless; his voice dropped to a broken whisper. "No, please... I was not taunting you. Please do not..." 

"Do not what?" As Aragorn spoke, he met the elf's harrowed, tear-shimmering gaze. 

Looking into Legolas's eyes, which were haunted with sadness and unfathomable pain, struck a deep chord within Aragorn. His vision cleared, and the sudden desire evaporated as quickly as it had flared up; now he saw only Legolas's fragile, tainted beauty, and the ravaged soul that ached beneath. An overwhelming sense of sympathy and remorse washed through him. 

"I am not going to hurt you," Aragorn said quietly. 

Legolas opened his eyes, and looked at Aragorn in amazement. He said nothing, but the relief and gratitude in his gaze spoke volumes. 

Aragorn stepped backwards, away from Legolas. He was appalled at himself for thinking of Legolas in that manner, even briefly; it was like a swift glimpse into a dark mirror of cruelty, an ominous reminder that he, too, was human. 

With growing dismay he surveyed the damage that had been wrought upon the elf's body. Crescent-shaped red marks on Legolas's waist told of cruel fingernails digging deep; and to Aragorn's horror, he saw traces of blood staining Legolas's inner thighs. Besides the fact that elf-flesh was silkier and more easily bruised, the penetration must have been forceful enough to break skin. Aragorn tried not to think about what had befallen Legolas in the heated moments just past -- but the images still rose in his mind, unbidden. He picked up a blanket from nearby, and draped it over Legolas's shoulders, covering him, and gestured for him to sit down on the bed. The elf moved as if he was trying to stifle the pain with each step he took; yet his walk was still torturously graceful. 

Aragorn left the king's chambers to retrieve some healing salve and athelas leaves, which he kept in his own quarters. He also gave instructions for a set of new garments to be brought. This time, Aragorn specified robes of dark green -- for he perceived that to dress Legolas in white would be a subtle mockery. 

Aragorn returned with a basin of water and a cloth for Legolas to clean himself. The elf carefully scrubbed away the uncleanness that clung to his body, and then quickly dressed in the new garments. The robes hung loosely on his slim frame; he settled down, sitting gingerly on the edge of the bed. He watched Aragorn mix the salve with crushed leaves of athelas; finally, he spoke. 

"How did you know the meaning of my name?" Legolas asked. 

Aragorn looked up. "I understand the Elvish tongue," he answered shortly, but elaborated no further. He brought the salve to Legolas, and gently smoothed it on the elf's wrists, which had been abraded by the leather bands that the hunters had bound him with. 

"I wish that athelas could also heal the wounds of the soul," Legolas said quietly. "Alas, that is not so." 

Aragorn paused, and looked deeply into Legolas's eyes. "You are suffering greatly in spirit." 

"Yes." Legolas whispered; the word left his lips like a lone snowflake falling to the ground. 

Aragorn frowned slightly; he remembered something he had learned before, of the nature of elves: that they would die if they were raped. 

"But it is said that your kindred will perish if they are... violated." Aragorn halted, and watched Legolas's reaction carefully. "I feared that the king did not know this about your race, for it is not the understood way with ours. I am relieved, to some extent, that you still live." 

"Yes; but perhaps there can be found flaws in the fundaments of nature," Legolas said, his voice heartbreakingly soft. "You have heard truly: when we are taken against our will, we will die. Yet maybe your king knew this too well..." he trailed off; a shadow of pain fell across his face. "For even the forced derivation of pleasure annuls the premise of assault. And thus, I still live." The elf fell silent; he bowed his head, and said no more. 

A terrible realisation dawned on Aragorn as Legolas's words sank in. Now he understood the truth of the matter -- and it was more devastating than he could have imagined. For it was out of mercy that elves were allowed to let their spirits flee their bodies as an escape from a life in torment; but Legolas had forfeited this. If ever possible, it was worse than the fate of the Ringwraiths, who were cursed to be neither living nor dead; but now, Legolas was doomed to live with the brutal memory of the violation he had suffered. 

They spoke no further words as Aragorn finished dressing Legolas's wounds; yet in the silence there was some comfort, which Legolas could feel even though it was not articulated. The touch of Aragorn's hands on his skin was tender and careful, and Legolas closed his eyes -- in the tumult of raw emotions, both healing and hurtful, a single tear escaped, and coursed down his face. 

The sudden light caress of Aragorn's fingers against his cheek made Legolas's eyes flash open, startled. Leaning closer to him, Aragorn gently brushed away the tear, leaving a moist silver mark glistening on Legolas's cheek. 

"There may still come a healing yet, if you do not let go of hope," Aragorn said gently. "Perhaps one day, you will find the athelas for your soul." 

"In the darkness, it is hard to seek what is so rare and elusive," Legolas whispered back, his voice choked. 

"Yet perhaps you need not look far for comfort." Aragorn straightened, and looked at Legolas pensively. "Maybe the weed of healing grows hidden at your very feet." 

Legolas dropped his gaze, and said nothing. But Aragorn knew not the power of his comfort -- for it was in his gentle words of hope that Legolas found the strength to endure, and the will to carry on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> {References made to `Laws and Customs Among the Eldar', footnote 5; published in the book "Morgoth's Ring: The First Part of the Later Silmarillion", edited by Christopher Tolkien. This tells of how Elves die when they are raped: "For this was wholly against their nature, and one so forced would have rejected bodily life."} 
> 
> [[ In the next chapter: Aragorn confides in Gandalf; and Boromir has something else to bestow upon his elf-slave. ]]


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aragorn confides in Gandalf; and Boromir has something else to bestow upon his elf-slave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Story Notes: Please refer to the headings in Chapter One, or read the notes at <http://rhysenn.morethanart.org/lotr/tbc-notes.htm> for more detailed exposition of the situation and characters in this AU.

The next morning, Gandalf sat in the steward's quarters, listening attentively to Aragorn's account of the eventful Spring Feast the night before. More than all else, Aragorn spoke of Legolas, and the humiliation and cruelty that the elf had endured at the hands of King Boromir. 

"It seems wrong -- to me at least -- that King Boromir should take an Elf, one of the First Kindred, to be a personal slave to his own lust," Aragorn said hotly, as he paced back and forth. "I do not rebel against the king's judgement; but in this case, I refuse to favour it." 

"It would be best if you kept your opinions to yourself," Gandalf advised, "for you can do nothing; lest your words against the king reach his ears, and portend more trouble both for you and Legolas." He paused, and shook his head ruefully. "Spring Feast was yesterday, you say? April the sixth?" 

"Yes," Aragorn replied curiously. "Is that of any significance?" 

"Indeed it is," Gandalf answered gravely. "It made the festivities doubly cruel for the elf -- for the sixth day of April marks the Elves' New Year, a tradition that has long faded in the memory of Men in Gondor, but which the elves always hold dear in their hearts." 

Aragorn looked shocked, then dismayed; there were several layers of emotion filtering through his expression. 

"Of course," he said in a low voice, sounding appalled at himself. "The Elves' New Year falls on the sixth of April. How could I have forgotten? In Rivendell it was always celebrated grandly. The fountains were lit with the sparkling lights of stars, and petals adorned the pathways; the waterfalls gave forth mists of silver, which wafted like curtains of silk around the pavilion..." Aragorn suddenly stopped, as if the tide of awakening memories were too much to take; he bowed his head slightly, and looked worn and sad. 

"Many years have passed since you shared in the merriment and joy of the elves," Gandalf said gently. "You have wandered far and wide in the years that lie between then and now -- you must not feel guilty for letting a tradition that is not your own slip from your mind. As long as you do not forget it altogether." 

"It has been a long time," Aragorn said, his voice almost a whisper. "Yet Rivendell is still like a place crystallised in my mind, its beauty written in my heart. There lies the only place I have ever called my home, and it holds every beautiful memory of my days of youth." He paused. "Tell me, Gandalf -- when did you last ride through Imladris, and how fares Master Elrond and his household?" 

"Elrond and his people still live in peace; fragile, yet enduring." Gandalf appeared thoughtful, and there was a kindly light in his eyes as he looked directly at Aragorn. "He asks often of you, as a father would want to hear news of his son -- but he knows the burden you have to carry alone, and has faith that you will walk the right path. I last spoke with him about six months ago, when I made a detour to Rivendell to help an old friend make some travel arrangements." 

Something else occurred to Aragorn. 

"Have you passed through Mirkwood in recent years?" he asked. "You did not seem to recognise Legolas when you first saw him; and neither did he appear to know you." 

Gandalf shook his head. "No, I have often passed by Mirkwood, but I have not entered it in many years. King Thranduil holds the fort against stirring evil in his woodland country, and the Wood-elves prefer to remain on their own, and welcome few visitors. Only rarely do I encounter one of Thranduil's messengers to Rivendell, or Lrien -- but I have never seen Legolas before." 

There was a brief silence; then Aragorn spoke pensively. "What think you of Legolas, Gandalf?" 

"Ah," Gandalf said, with a knowing look in his eye. "But it matters not -- for I do not dwell permanently in this city, although I reside here often to share your company. It only matters what _you_ think." 

"I think he is beautiful," Aragorn admitted to his old friend. "A beauty that goes beyond physical attractiveness, of which he has no lack -- but he also has a light within him that shines forth and enchants everything he does: the way he speaks, the look in his eyes, the movement of his hands." 

"You seem smitten with the elf," Gandalf observed neutrally. 

Aragorn opened his mouth to protest, but found that words failed him. He halted, and forced himself to confront the true reason why he had been feeling miserable ever since Legolas had been taken away from the feast last night, and why the gnawing sensation that seemed to penetrate his bones was suddenly made sharper at the mere mention of the elf. 

"Smitten is the wrong word," he finally said. "But there is certainly something about Legolas that I feel... drawn towards. Perhaps it is the nurtured calling of my upbringing, even though I have carelessly allowed memory to lapse -- Legolas reminds me all over again how fair and graceful his kindred are, and how they love nature and see so much beauty in life." 

"Watch yourself, Aragorn," Gandalf warned. "It is one thing to appreciate beauty, even of spirit; but entirely another to let your gaze linger upon one who belongs to someone else, and can never be yours to have." 

"It is an irony," Aragorn said softly; then he added wryly, "Every life needs one." 

"And from such ironies spring bitterness and pain that will never cease to follow you," Gandalf said solemnly; he regarded Aragorn with keen concern. "Be strong, Aragorn -- do not let it break you down." 

* * *

Boromir gave Legolas leave to wander within the boundaries of the palace during daylight hours. Legolas was eager to leave the bedchamber; he wanted to get away from the sleepless agony that room brought, and seek solace and much needed rest in a quiet place by himself. 

But Legolas soon found that this was as impossible as finding mercy at Boromir's hands. 

As he walked in the courtyards, he was well aware of the officials' watching him pass by; and the way some of them looked at him made Legolas's skin crawl. Having witnessed the way Boromir had treated him during the Spring Feast, the officials of the palace knew all too well the services that Legolas was expected to provide -- and although they did not dare to lay a hand on him, leering and mocking words were free for all. 

"Lost your way, elf?" A man in uniform suddenly stepped into his path, blocking his way. He gave Legolas a sneering smile. "I could show you to the bedchambers." 

Legolas backed away from him, alarmed, but another two officials joined the first, cornering him. 

"Yes, Bregor," laughed one of them, letting his eyes run lasciviously over Legolas's body. "You are in line for a promotion soon, are you not? Perhaps you could ask the king for a night with this lovely elf instead."He reached out, as if wanting to stroke the elf's face. 

Legolas flinched away. "Do not touch me!" 

"Oh?" Bregor arched an eyebrow, clearly enjoying himself. He stepped closer to Legolas, hemming him in. "Do you speak to him with such insolence? You have a great deal of foolish courage, slave." 

Legolas looked around wildly, but the three men had surrounded him; he could not slither away. He flattened himself against the wall that he was backed up against, and bit his lip in helpless despair. 

"Look at him," Bregor mocked. "He stands so willingly -- were he not the king's bedslave, I reckon that he would allow all three of us to take our turn with him right here, up against the wall. Such a pretty whore." 

"I wonder if King Boromir will tire of him soon," the third official mused, casting the others a knowing look. "When he does, we could ask the king to lend him to us. I'm sure that we could teach this elf a thing or two." 

"Yes, I have heard that it can even be more enjoyable to lie with a male elf than a woman of our own kind," Bregor added, relishing the look of caged fear in Legolas's eyes. "For their skin is smooth like silk, and their flesh soft and tender, as well as deliciously tight." They all roared with laughter. 

"Leave him alone, Bregor." 

Bregor turned, mildly startled; he saw Aragorn standing behind him. He gave the steward a superficial smile. "Ah, Aragorn -- good day to you." 

"The king will not be pleased if he sees you treat Legolas in this manner," Aragorn said, fixing Bregor with a hard gaze; he glanced at Legolas, and saw the immense relief on his face. 

"We were just giving him a personal welcome to our city," Bregor replied breezily. "And as steward of the household, you should be informed that this elf-slave just spoke to us with blatant disrespect. He must be punished." 

"I will deal with him from here," Aragorn replied steadily. "I am sure that other more important duties must now demand your attention." 

Bregor's eyes flashed, but he had nothing to retort. "Verily so," he said shortly, as he and his companions turned and strode off. 

Aragorn watched the departure of the three officials with narrowed eyes, and then he turned back to Legolas, who was trembling as he leaned against the wall; the elf looked very shaken. 

"You have to be careful," Aragorn told him. "Do not wander to quiet corners of the palace on your own. It is not safe." 

"But I do not want to remain in the king's chambers during the day," Legolas answered; there was a pained sadness in his clear eyes. "Where then shall I go?" 

Aragorn considered for a moment, before he said, "There is a couch in my quarters where you can rest without being disturbed by anyone else in the palace. Do you want to go there?" 

Legolas hesitated briefly, and then nodded. He followed Aragorn to his quarters; they were spacious, although much more modest than the king's chambers. The main door opened into a broad study, with a waxed oak table and matching armchair. A couch cushioned in dark blue velvet sat across from the table, and a softly woven rug was laid between. Away to the left, an open archway led into the inner chamber, where the steward slept. 

Legolas sat down on the edge of the couch. He felt a fleeting fear shiver through him as Aragorn shut the doors behind them -- he had developed a deep dread of enclosed rooms, and being alone with a Man in his chambers naturally sent a chill through him. His mind was still reeling from the mocking words that the three palace officials had hurled at him: Lovely elf. Pretty whore. We could teach him a thing or two... 

"Ignore them, Legolas." Aragorn's voice was even. 

Legolas looked at him. "How did things come to be this way?" he asked softly. "Where power is derived only through another's humiliation, and one has no qualms about taking the belonging of his fellow kind. Is this the race that you pledge your allegiance to?" 

"It is not a choice." A husky tremor quivered through Aragorn's voice. "I owe loyalty to my own kind -- and even though they have fallen to decadence, I will not cease to hope." 

Legolas tilted his head thoughtfully. "I have heard an old saying: To hope for what you can never have is a wound that will be healed only in death." 

Aragorn levelled Legolas's gaze. "Then I will die trying." 

* * *

In the days that followed, Legolas frequently sought out Aragorn's company; it was the only time that brought him comfort and some measure of happiness. But they never once spoke of what went on in the king's bedchamber at night. Since Aragorn had been entrusted with the duty of seeing to the elf's well-being, the king saw nothing more to Legolas's time spent with the steward of his house. 

Boromir did, however, notice the lingering glances and suggestive leers that Legolas received from the other men in the palace each time he passed by. The king was proud of his beautiful possession; but he was not pleased at the unwanted attention Legolas attracted from his court officials. Since no one had actually laid a hand on his slave, there was little else he could do about it. But to dissuade his courtiers from ideas above their station, Boromir resolved to mark the elf as his in an unequivocal way. 

And so Boromir called for a brief assembly in the courtyard of the king's house; all the palace officials were gathered. The king called Legolas to his side, and then turned to address his court. 

"I have a gift for my slave," Boromir announced; Legolas showed no expression, and kept his eyes to the floor. Boromir drew out a box from under the table. Opening it, he carefully removed what lay inside, and then held it up for the assembly to see. 

It was a collar. About an inch wide, it was wrought of fine gold, which shone brilliantly in the sunlight. Words were engraved along the outer rim: Legolas's name, identifying him as property of Boromir son of Denethor, King of Anorin. Many coloured jewels were set along the outer band in the spaces between the words; they glinted like star-eyes. There was a lock on the back of the collar, where the two halves snapped together. 

Boromir signalled for Legolas to come near to him, and he slipped the collar around the elf's neck. The lock clicked shut, and the collar was a good fit -- it was not loose, and held firmly around Legolas's neck, but yet not so tight that it marked his flesh. 

Aragorn could not believe his eyes. A slave collar? This was rare even in Minas Tirith; and the fine quality of the collar only made the mockery of it all the more stark. 

"It is a perfect fit." Boromir stepped back and surveyed Legolas with approval. "A fine adornment for one so fair -- and a fair warning to all to keep their hands off my property." There was a titter of apprehensive laughter in response, although the audience perceived that Boromir was serious. 

"And as for you," Boromir now turned to Legolas, and a flicker of intense emotion crossed his face. "Know the worth of your beauty and the pleasure you bring me -- for no slave in this land has ever received such an expensive gift. But let this also be a reminder of whom you belong to." 

Legolas remained silent, and kept his eyes downcast. 

"Do you hear my words?" Boromir repeated meaningfully, an ominous tone creeping into his voice. 

"Yes... master." Legolas's voice was strained. 

"Very well." Boromir was satisfied. The king reached for Legolas once more -- fingering the silky locks of his hair, he drew the elf closer, and kissed him hard on the mouth. 

Aragorn found himself unable to look away. There was a sharp ache twisting inside him, thorns bound around his heart piercing deep as he watched Legolas allow the king to ravish him. Aragorn reminded himself that it was for the best that Legolas yielded; but the thought did not ease him. 

After the officials left the court and Legolas had been dismissed, Faramir remained. He had a slight frown on his face, and he leaned in to speak to his older brother; Aragorn, who was standing just next to them, could hear the conversation. 

"A collar, Boromir?" Faramir asked, with a shake of his head. "Is it necessary to label him in such a manner, even if he is yours?" 

"It is a warning to anyone who might be bold enough to lay his hand on the elf," Boromir replied. "And Legolas should now realise that it is fruitless to resist any futher. I have broken his stubbornness." 

"That you certainly have," Faramir answered in a reproving tone. "And you have also broken his spirit." 

//Broken, yes -- but not ruined,// Aragorn thought to himself grimly. // Not yet. // 

* * *

Legolas wore a deep grey tunic when he came into Aragorn's quarters the next day. Aragorn glanced up, and thought that the dark fabric brought out the fair colour of Legolas's hair; although his skin seemed pale next to the over-rich gold of the collar around his neck. 

The elf settled down on the couch, sitting perfectly still, with a unique posture that made him look both poised and relaxed at the same time. There was a hollow bleakness in his eyes, which still bore the mark of the night even during the merciful day. His gaze presently fell on Aragorn's bow, which was standing propped against the far wall; and a light returned to his eyes. 

"May I inspect your bow?" Legolas asked, a rare eagerness in his voice. 

Aragorn hesitated for a moment; a bow was a weapon, and no steward would, in his right mind, allow a slave to lay hold of it. But there was no quiver of arrows lying nearby; Aragorn reasoned that there was little danger in letting the elf touch the bow. 

Legolas quickly noticed Aragorn's hesitance. "Do not worry," he said swiftly. "I do not wish to cause you any harm -- and there are no arrows around. But I have great love for archery, and the wood-turning of your bow is of high quality. Only the bowstring is too loose; for a taut string gives the arrow a steadier path." 

"Ah, yes," Aragorn said with a small smile; he relented, and gestured that Legolas could pick up the bow. "You are from Mirkwood; the most skilled of elven archers hail from that region." 

"I had a reputation among my kinsfolk in Mirkwood for arrows that always met their target," Legolas answered, with a note of pride in his voice; he carefully lifted the bow, relishing the feel of it in his hands. 

"That is fine praise," Aragorn said, nodding. "Given your talent, you must have been one of the best archers in King Thranduil's service." 

"Yes." Legolas hesitated, and his voice faltered briefly before he softly added, "I am also his son." 

Aragorn's jaw dropped. "What did you just say?" 

"Thranduil is my father," Legolas said quietly. "I am his youngest son." 

There was a heartbeat of silence. 

"You are a prince of Mirkwood?" Aragorn stared at Legolas incredulously. "Why did you never speak of this before?" 

"What use would that have served?" Legolas raised his eyes to Aragorn's; they were filled with pain and frustration. "If I had told my captors that I was of royal blood, they would only have demanded a higher price for me. And I did not wish to cheapen the worth of my lineage by using it to negotiate with those cruel folk -- at any rate, my freedom was already beyond my control." 

Aragorn's brow furrowed, and he was profoundly puzzled -- for, unknown to Legolas, there had already been deep concern over the possibility of Elves coming down south to Minas Tirith to war with them, and reclaim their kin who had been taken captive. Boromir had shrewdly forseen this, and had posted hidden guards and sent out scouts to gather news of any such attack drawing near to their city. But no alarm had been raised in the past two weeks. 

"But if you are Thranduil's son," Aragorn continued, with a small frown. "Then why has he not sent forth the hosts of Mirkwood to find you, even searching to the corners of Middle-earth and leaving no stone unturned, if that was what it took to get you back?" 

"You speak truly," Legolas said; the shadow of anguish in his eyes darkened, and his voice grew more bitter. "My father would stop at nothing to rescue me -- if only he knew that I was captured." 

"He does not know you are missing?" Aragorn asked, astounded. 

"No, he does not." Legolas's voice wavered, but he forced himself to keep speaking in an even tone, although it still trembled slightly. "For my father had given me leave to travel to Fangorn to explore the truth in the songs that are sung of that ancient woodland. Although he was reluctant to let me go by myself, I went forth alone; I had intended to take the pass through the Mountains of Mirkwood, and strike the Old Forest Road -- but I was waylaid in the valley, and outnumbered." He halted, and there was great sadness in his eyes. "Even now I think my father still assumes that I am on a journey -- and since Fangorn is a great distance away, he will not expect me back home for several months." 

"So this is the truth of the matter," Aragorn mused, his brow furrowed thoughtfully. "I often wondered how your disappearance evaded your kinsfolk's notice for so long." 

"I rue the day I set out on my own, against my father's better advice," Legolas said quietly. "I enjoyed the solitude, because when I journey through uncharted lands alone, my senses are heightened in the peaceful quiet all around." He paused, and lowered his eyes sorrowfully. "I sought adventure -- but now I only wish for deliverance." 

"Deliverance?" Aragorn said, and shook his head. "The king has gone to great lengths to ensure that you will remain here -- guards watch the route along the Anduin, and sentinels are stationed constantly at the Great Gate. All other ways that you might fare to escape through the City Wall are bolted, and only a few high officials of the court hold a set of keys to them. Minas Tirith is not called `The Tower of Guard' for no reason." 

"You need not warn me," Legolas said bitterly. "Your king frequently reminds me of the dire consequences of escape." 

Aragorn noticed that Legolas always spoke of his master as ` _your_ king' -- as if in his eyes Boromir were too despicable even to be conferred a general title of `the king', with the oblique respect inherent in that form of reference. There was little to wonder at in this subtle insult, a slave's last defiance. Aragorn was often quietly shocked to see the red marks of cruel handprints on Legolas's wrists and arms, and he did not even want to think of the bruises that the elf's clothes concealed. Boromir was a man of war -- he was not known for his gentleness, or restraint. 

The elf said no more. Holding the bow in his hands, he seemed as if he were caught in a distant and beautifully sad memory of his homeland, of the life he once had; Aragorn did not disturb him. As if walking in a dream, Legolas went over to the couch and sat down, letting his fingers run lovingly over the carved wood contours of the bow on his lap. The colourful jewels on the collar around his neck glinted like a harsh rainbow in the morning sun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [[ In the next chapter: Legolas learns the meaning of tenderness, and Aragorn learns what it means to love. ]]


End file.
